St. John has ever been a wealthy fool- 135 But pray, when others praife him do I blame? Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name? Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine, Oh, all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine! What! fhall each fpur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-penfion'd fycophant pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend, Then wisely plead to me they meant no hurt, 141 But 'twas my gueft at whom they threw the dirt? 145 Of honour bind me not to maul his tools; To fee a footman kick'd that took his pay; 150 And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the reft; 155 Which not at prefent having time to do [you? 160 F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake; where's th' affront to Against your Worthip when had S-k writ? Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard whofe diftich all commend [In pow'r a fervant, out of pow'r a friend] To W-le guilty of fome venial fin, What's that to you, who ne'er was out or in? The priest whofe flattery be-dropp`d the crown, How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown. And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend? P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came; Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame, Since the whole Houfe did afterwards the fame. 0 3 165 Let Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply, But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; Afk you what provocation I have had? 171 175 180 185 190 195 Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be your's. Mine as a foe profefs'd to falfe pretence, 201 Who think a coxcomb's honour like his fenfe; Mine as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind; And mine as man, who feel for all mankind. P. So proud, I am no flave; 205 So impudent, I own myfelf no knave; So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to fee Safe Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 216 O facred weapon! loft for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence! To all but heav'n directed hands deny'd, The Mufe may give thee, but the gods must guide: Rev'rend I touch thee! but with honeft zeal, To roufe the watchmen of the public weal, To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the prelate slumb’ring in his stall. Ye tinfel infects! whom a court maintains, That.counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of Day, The Mufe's wing fhall brush you all away: All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship fings, All that makes faints of queens and gods of kings; All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the prefs, Like the loft Gazette or the last Address. When black Ambition ftains a public cause, A monarch's fword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waler's wreath can hide the nation's fcar, Not Boileau turn the feather to a star. 220 224 230 Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's Not fo when diadem'd with rays divine, Her prieftefs Mufe forbids the good to die, And opes the temple of Eternity. There other trophies deck the truly brave Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the grave; Far other ftars then * and * * wear, And may defcend to Mordington from Stair! [Such as on Hough's unfully'd mitre fhine, [fhrine, 235 Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine,] 240 245 Here, Here, laft of Britons! let your names be read : F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Effays on Man. 250 255 SUCH EPISTLE I. To Robert Earl of Oxford and Lord Mortimer.* were the notes thy once lov'd poet fung, Till death untimely ftopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, juft beheld and loft! admir'd and mourn'd! With foftest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Blefs'd in each science! bless'd in ev'ry strain! Dear to the Mufe! to Harley dear—in vain! For him thou oft' haft bid the world attend, Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear, And sure if aught below the seats divine, In vain to defarts thy retreat is made, 5 10 15 20 25 30 She Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our Author after the faid Eari's imprifonment in the Tower, and retreat into the country, in the year 1721. |